


I Don't, I Can't, I Won't (I Will)

by Primarina (PastelBrachypelma)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caretaking, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comfort Food, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley eats, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Food, Food Issues, Food Kink, Food Porn, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Self-Hatred, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelBrachypelma/pseuds/Primarina
Summary: All demons had their Grace ripped out of them, replaced with a hunger that needs to be sated.They each deal with it in their own ways. Crowley...doesn't.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This may be triggering to you if you have or are recovering from an ED. Please read with caution!

Crowley stands in the back garden of their cottage and sways as a rush of dizziness overwhelms him. That’s been happening much more often these days.

Demons, unlike angels, actually do need to eat. It’s something written in their souls, their essences. Where their Grace had once been, filling them, there is only emptiness left behind. And demons deal with their hunger in different ways. Some drink blood or eat flesh or go feral and have inspired the monsters that humans fear. Some fill the void with gluttony and then starve themselves just to feel something. 

Some, like Crowley, just get lost in it.

At his core, he is a snake, prone to anxiety and stress, prone to respiratory infections and hypothermia. He is picky, like some of his more docile cousins. He will not eat if the environment isn’t right, and if he is stressed, his appetite will leave him.

Crowley once heard of a ball python who starved herself for a year, and thinks that he has probably done something similar, forgetting to be hungry for centuries. He doesn’t notice it, doesn’t often feel the ache until it’s too late, and he is weak and thin and cold.

“Stress” was an understatement as far as describing how he felt in the eleven years leading up to the (failed) Apocalypse. It was a gnawing, desperate thing that squeezed around his ribcage, making it hard to breathe. He’d been more defensive than usual, more like a snake coiled and ready to strike, venomous fangs bared. But even amongst all of that, it had let up just a little, just enough to give him a window into how his corporation’s stomach writhed in pain, aching to digest a meal.

Crowley is a rather sizeable snake, and a rather sizeable snake has a rather sizeable diet, and in the present moment, Crowley sways and closes his eyes and tries not to think of the koi swimming in the pond at his feet, tries not to think of the old bull two fields over that would not be missed by his owners, tries not to think of the sheep three doors to the left who are countless in number and so one missing from the flock would not be enough to cause alarm. He thinks of that day, years ago, when he learned that eating might have been more trouble than it was worth.

When he learned that eating a little, and expecting that to tide you over, is worse than not eating at all.

Crowley, as Nanny Ashtoreth, was walking with young Warlock in the gardens of the Dowling estate. She held Warlock’s hand gently in her own as the child, barely two and a half, toddled along beside her, thumb stubbornly shoved in his mouth, despite his mother’s pleas to his nanny to make him stop.

(Crowley knew thumb sucking was perfectly fine at Warlock’s age; she had seen to many more children than Mrs. Dowling had, thank you very much.)

But she was not aware that she was so hungry. She was not aware that, perhaps, she hadn’t actually eaten since her century-long nap in the 1800s, when she’d gorged herself on lame horses as punishment for torturing her for so long (and hadn’t she been in a male corporation then? The human concept of gender was exhausting). No, she only became aware of it when her tongue slipped out to wet her lips, and she smelled it.

A little vole, burrowing under the grass. 

Crowley could not help herself. She suddenly felt weak and ill and starved half to death, which she probably was. A century is a long time to go without eating, even for a demon, whose corporation tended to have a rather vague concept of time. And oh, but the vole would taste like grass and fur and blood and bone, and oh, she ached, less perhaps than in her male corporation, but she craved, and cravings were hard when she was wearing this corporation, and…!

Crowley waved her hand and Warlock was sudden;y entranced by a gorgeous, out of season monarch butterfly dancing past him, leading him just a few feet from her so that he did not see. He couldn’t speak more than aborted syllables just yet, but he was far from unaware. And despite the fact that showing him how to kill a vole and making him watch her eat it was exactly the thing a young Antichrist ought to do, she elected not to. (Rather fortunate for Warlock, who was decidedly not the Antichrist child and had developed a fondness for rats in his teenage years.)

Crowley reached into the earth and pulled the vole from it, squirming and squeaking in distress. Something about that made the snake in her hungrier still, and she squeezed it in her palm, pulling it towards her lips. One bite with her fangs killed the small, warm thing, and Crowley…

Crowley cupped her palm and then, as if covering a yawn, placed her hand firmly against her open mouth and swallowed the perfect little morsel down. And oh, it felt sinful going down her throat, her tongue dancing with the fresh, delightful taste of the furry little creature. Crowley expected to feel better after the creature’s tiny body landed in her stomach. She expected the snack to sate her, calm her, calm the raging storm rolling like thunder beneath her breastbone. But instead of calm, the storm raged worse than before, swirling like a rough sea, greedy, only wanting more, and Crowley…

She could not regurgitate it. The corpse of the tiny rodent had burned up within her like Hellfire, but still, her angry stomach wanted more. 

But the butterfly had gone, and it was time for Warlock’s nap. Nanny Ashtoreth bent down to scoop Warlock into her arms, one hand resting, palm flat, against her stomach until she had to hold the boy with both arms. And if anyone noticed Miss Ashtoreth sleeping alongside her charge, well. None of the staff really had the courage to report her.

But now, all that was behind them. Demon and angel had defected from Hell and Heaven in grand fashion, said a resounding “fuck you” to their superiors, and gleefully danced into the sunset all the way to a gorgeous little cottage in the South Downs, sandwiched between a small farmstead and a family of shepherds.

And Crowley had never told Aziraphale that he needed to eat.

Strictly speaking, Crowley did not need to subsist on meat he killed himself. He was an obligate carnivore, but eating something that wasn’t meat wouldn’t be fatal. He could digest other foods in small amounts without meat, though if meat was the main dish, he could sit through a five course meal without feeling any stomach cramps. That is to say, yes, he had absolutely wanted to try crepes with Aziraphale after he’d rescued him from the Bastille. He’d been on his way to get something--anything--to quiet the (rather empathic, if he was honest) ache of hunger in his gut that had, at least partially, fueled the Revolution, and blessed himself when his casual “What’s for lunch?” sounded more hopeful than he expected.

But now, he hadn’t eaten in, oh...far too long. At first, his adrenaline had kept him going on as normal. Never mind that he was getting thinner, so thin that he felt his bones might break. Never mind that he’d stopped time and driven through Hellfire and switched bodies with an angel, never mind that he’d still performed a normal amount of miracles despite an ache resembling human tendonitis developing in his dominant hand and getting worse for every miracle he snapped…

Crowley swayed dangerously forward and opened his eyes just in time, scrambling away from the water, sunglasses falling off his face and into his shaking hands. He stared, stared past them into the cool, clear water, at the fat, beautifully colored koi, swimming blissfully unaware below him. They were Aziraphale’s fish; the angel knew each one by name, and the fish knew him, were unafraid of Aziraphale and would swim right up to him, were coming to trust Crowley, too, and oh, though his stomach did ache something awful and his mouth longed to taste them, throat longing to stretch around them, he could never, would never, hurt them. Just as he’d swatted away thoughts of eating the ducklings that had been born here last spring, had let his belly ache as rabbits dug up his garden and stole his vegetables, let Aziraphale set up a birdfeeder even though his hands itched to grab food that was so tantalizingly close…

“Crowley?”

It was getting to be too much. Crowley had dreams of eating his fill, had drifted into wakefulness with a phantom fullness taunting him before the hollow growls of his stomach returned, had longed to join Aziraphale in ordering a dish, but finding himself so shy to eat in front of his angel now that they were living under the same roof. Somehow, Aziraphale knowing that he ate was almost worse than being a mere ten years from discorporating from starvation, a feat he accomplished but once before. Hell had laughed, then. Now, he would just be imprisoned.

And the corporation, a fresh re-issue of a mere 5000 years, never forgot. His soul never forgot that his only discorporation had been from hunger, and ever since, it had somehow started to creep up the list of his fears, settling just under “Aziraphale dying in hellfire,” and yet he couldn’t eat.

“Crowley!”

He couldn’t eat, because it would only feel like a snack, his stomach would burn it to ash...he would never be satisfied…

“Crowley! Say something!”

Crowley turned, slowly, his eyes fully yellow. “Angel,” he said, and promptly passed out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE! This chapter contains content that has to do with my ED and my experiences with it. While I do not have anorexia or bulimia, this chapter may be triggering to those who are in recovery. Proceed with caution!

The smell of food roused him.

Well, that, and the loud, moody growls his stomach was emitting. He could feel them more than anything, the way they clawed at his stomach’s lining like the beasts at the gates of tartarus, threatening to burst from his skin like some horrifying sci-fi creation. A blessed snarl filled his ears, and Crowley could only hope Aziraphale wasn’t within earshot.

He wasn’t. 

The demon let out a sigh of relief, and flopped over onto his front, sighing wearily as a bedspring from Aziraphale’s old mattress dug into his ribs. He really must convince the angel to get something softer.

The angel was cooking. Crowley could smell as much. The variety of dishes was global, ranging from Chinese to African, Japanese to Irish. And it was all meat-based. His head swam as his tongue slipped out from between his lips involuntarily, all his instincts telling him where the food was and to just go get it already. He knew his eyes would be fully yellow just from the stress and pain he was currently experiencing, and yet…

Crowley sighed deeply as his stomach growled again, a hollow ache that twisted his gut and made his entire body scream. He was shaking, trembling, and he pulled the blankets further around himself, trying to get warm. 

He was so hungry. He was, in fact, far too hungry. His body was in such desperate straits that it could only tell him to eat as a defense, without making much more sense otherwise. He didn’t know what he wanted to eat, or even where to begin to tell his body to bring him to sustenance. 

“Crowley.”

The demon poked his head out from the covers at Aziraphale’s voice. The angel looked somewhere between worried and pissed, and it seemed as if the bastard side of his nature was slowly winning out. The storm-blue eyes were hard as diamonds, and his normally soft, gentle face was full of thin lines of disapproval. Despite being in the angel’s bad books, Crowley couldn’t help sighing fondly when he saw the familiar face. Aziraphale had put on weight in all the beautiful, glorious ways the human body could, adding more chins, more meat to his hips and thighs, and a gorgeous globe of a belly that he wore with pride. 

It made Crowley ache to devour so much so that he might look like that. It made Crowley want to devour Aziraphale (though not in the literal sense). Despite the fact that the two of them were not sexual creatures, Crowley could spend hours mapping Aziraphale’s belly with his teeth and tongue, eliciting moans and sighs from his dear one.

Even angry, he looked a thing of beauty, and Crowley, lovestruck, could only stare.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Aziraphale demanded, hands on perfect plush hips. “Honestly! The...the nerve of you..! I have been wearing you out! And you refused to tell me!”

Crowley’s brain-gears were a bit gummed up. Starving for centuries, rarely if ever eating your fill, didn’t necessarily lend itself to good listening or comprehension skills, but, slowly, they began to turn. Aziraphale thought this was his fault. Of all the…

“No, angel,” Crowley rasped, surprised to find his voice as hoarse as if he’d been shouting one of Shakespeare’s sonnets over a waterfall. He tried to get up to a sitting position, but his vision kept swimming before his eyes, until he found a way to get his knees kneeling on the bed so he could push himself into something of a more respectable state. If “respectable state” could be defined as a submissive sort of curl, which looked more like a beginner's yoga pose than anywhere near what he’d hoped. “‘Ssss not your fault, thiss,” and oh great, now he was hissing. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. It kept bumping into things. “‘S mine.”

“Crowley,” And okay, Aziraphale sounded just a bit worried now, which was not preferable to anger. The demon deserved the angel’s anger. He didn’t want to make the poor dear worry. “Are you...have you been...deliberately hurting yourself?”

“Erm,” Crowley racked his brain for some sort of answer that would maybe get the angel to just forget all of this happened, forget that he fainted, and things could maybe go back to normal...except his stupid fucking tongue said, “I think that answer is complicated.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve got time.”

I don’t, thought Crowley with equal parts exasperation and fondness. Bastard angel. “Demons,” he found himself saying, “need to eat. N-not jussst sin. In fact, sin doesss very little, and it’s not...physical. It’s more akin to an orgasm, really. A...bad...orgasm, if you catch my drift… Anyway,” he cleared his throat, trying to get his thoughts back in order, “Our Grace being ripped out like that left an emptiness behind, and, erm, well...let’s just say the early days of Hell were, erm...not pleasant.”

Aziraphale shuddered, but Crowley knew by now that Aziraphale was stunned at the concept on Crowley’s behalf, and it was not a commentary on how much (or how little) of a demon he was at that point in history. “And d-did you ever…? I mean, I would be...understanding, if…”

“God no. Would’ve been, erm...picked apart, probably.” To be frank, he hadn’t really done much fighting in the War. He’d have been easy pickings for the other demons. “But...ngk,” His head filled with fuzz again, and he took a deep breath to recenter himself. He could smell crab close by, and serpentine eyes zeroed in on a bowl Aziraphale was carrying. He very nearly avoided drooling, but it was a last minute catch, at best. At worst, he probably had drooled. Just a little. “I need to eat. And I, uh...don’t.”

“Whyever not?” Aziraphale asked, incredulous, blue eyes wide.

Crowley sighed deeply, not entirely certain of the answer to this question. “Look, angel,” he began, defeated, “don’t...don’t worry, all right? I’ll be fine.” Especially after you let me have whatever smells like crab, he thought. Were he a proper demon, he would have simply teleported the food in front of him. As it was, he barely had the strength to continue speaking. “Just...let me go back to...sleep.” He yawned, his eyelids getting heavy. Sleeping did help. It was sort of like putting a bandaid on a broken bone...but at least it helped him get his energy back.

“No...Crowley, please,” Aziraphale begged, and then the demon was being manhandled, made to sit up against the headboard. It was a fight to even get that much done; the demon was a rag doll. “Oh, I’ve been a fool. Such a damned fool.”

“‘S my fault, really,” Crowley objected, feeling a bit off balance as his vision swam a bit before Aziraphale set him up against some pillows. “I can eat whatever and whenever I want, now. No one’s chasing my tail anymore.” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale said gently, pressing a bowl of warm...something, into his waiting hands. “But I mean...oh Crowley, the bird feeder and the koi…”

Crowley’s eyes hardened. “Don’t you dare. I’d never hurt your koi or your birds.” 

“I know,” Aziraphale nearly wailed. “You are so much better than I am, truly.” 

Crowley sighed. “Please, Aziraphale, don’t beat yourself up.” He kissed the angel’s cheek. “I could choose,” he went on, “to be very demonic indeed. We had ducklings last year that adored me. The koi swim to the surface when you and I are together. There are rabbits in my garden. I could’ve eaten my fill a thousand times over, or at least, not have gotten to the point of fainting.” He smiled. “But I like our cottage and the wildlife. And I want those ducks to come back and have ducklings of their own.” 

Aziraphale smiled fondly and kissed Crowley’s cheek. “You really are quite soft, you know.” He nudged at the bowl in Crowley’s lap. “Here, dear. Crab ramen. Quite the delicious dish.” 

Crowley’s mouth watered, serpentine tongue slipping between his lips as he lifted the bowl up, setting it against his breastbone. He was so tired and weak that his arms shook with just the weight of the bowl! It was probably also a testament to how weak he was that he didn’t even try to protest the angel calling him “soft.” The demon lifted the bowl to his lips, sipping at the rich brith, and using the chopsticks to shovel the noodles into his mouth, slurping a bit because that was considered polite. (Thanks to him.)

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but smiled still. “I’m glad you are enjoying it, my dear.” He looked away, into the corner of the room, thinking about how hard it must have been for Crowley, especially with the koi pond and the bird feeder all within easy reach of a hungry serpent. “Crowley,” he began, summoning a full bowl before Crowley could notice it was nearly empty, “do you think I am...cruel?”

“Wha?” Crowley swallowed noisily, having shoved a healthy serving of crab roe into his mouth just then. “Cruel?”

“I just…” Aziraphale fussed, “I worry that I didn’t see you suffering. How blind and self-centered have I been?!”

“Very,” Crowley replied matter-of-factly, and chuckled when Aziraphale turned to him, scandalized. “Angel,” he went on gently, “you have always been a bit self-centered. And I let you have your way because I adore you, and I would do very nearly anything if it made you happy.” He sighed, tilting his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I...tried to hold out, angel. I really did. But my corporation is very weak; Armageddon did it in, truly.” He shivered with a sudden chill, and Aziraphale pulled him close to his warm side. “I knew letting you know would make you feel guilty when you shouldn’t.”

Aziraphale pulled back a bit from Crowley, his brow furrowed in confusion and worry. “Crowley, did you think, perhaps, that I would’ve preferred you to starve? Because I can assure you that isn’t the case.”

Crowley stuffed more ramen into his mouth to avoid answering. “Maybe you didn’t want me to starve, angel,” he said, “but...I dunno. Maybe you like the fact I don’t eat, and…”

“Stop it. Stop right there.” Aziraphale wrapped a thick, muscular arm around Crowley’s slender frame. “I like having someone to share meals with. I enjoy spending time with you, and I want you to be comfortable. If you need to eat to do that, then you should. If I am hurting you, even accidentally, you must let me know. I don’t wish for you to suffer.”

Crowley nodded, head swimming. His stomach rumbled, and he tensed, closing his eyes against the pain. “Fuck,” he gasped, “it’s like the vole…”

“Pardon?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, pulling some bread from downstairs neatly cut and buttered. Crowley could probably do with something fluffy and soft to help soak up his stomach acids. “A vole?”

Crowley nodded once, taking a huge bite of the bread, imprints of his fangs leaving trails in the butter. “Yeah. Oh, salted butter is so sinful, angel…” He crunched happily into the crust and continued, mouth half full. “I...it’s not like I’ve been starving myself for 6000 years. Well, couldn’t really, I’d already discorporated from starvation once before. But the past eleven years have felt like a century. I was under a lot of stress, and…” He sighed. “Basically, I felt...starved, and so I ate a vole when Warlock wasn’t looking. But it burned in my belly like Hellfire.” He shrugged. “I think my stomach was so empty that eating a little was worse than just working my way through it until I could eat a full meal.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale cooed, wrapping the demon in an embrace. “You poor dear. I promise you, you won’t feel like that for long.”

Crowley melted into the hug, the sheer warmth of his lover soaking into all the tight cramps in his belly, slowly relaxing him. “In Hell,” he began quietly, “I was...the butt of everyone’s joke for discorporating from starvation. The other demons embraced gluttony right away. I couldn’t. I mean, I’m a bloody great snake!” His heart was beating in his throat, and he felt as if he was going to cry. “Living among humans, I couldn’t…”

Aziraphale’s arm stroked up and down his spine, shushing him. “My poor lamb. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” His voice was low and comforting, and that somehow made Crowley want to cry more.

“A-and my bosses, especially Hastur and Ligur, loved tormenting me.” Crowley pulled at the bob of fire-red hair, noting a few strands coming away in his hand. He suddenly wanted to pull every last strand out. “Snakes have a...very specific defense mechanism that’s helpful when running away. They loved scaring me enough to make me vomit, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s temple, and the demon sighed as something warm and full of love and healing spread throughout him from the kiss. It didn’t help him feel less hungry, but it did reduce his stress and lessen the urge to cry. “You’re safe now, though,” the angel told him, speaking facts in a gentle voice to help ground him. “We’re safe now. I could take you into the wilds with me, my dear. Let you stretch your snake form to full length and find something wild and filling for you. I’ll chase it to you, make it lame for you, protect you while you digest.”

Crowley felt like crying all over again, and he shoved the rest of the bread into his mouth to keep the sobs at bay. Tears sprang to his eyes anyway at the thought of doing exactly what Aziraphale suggested. He could take down jaguars in the Amazon, swallow a hippo in Africa, eat anacondas in the Americas. But the thought of traveling, even by miracle, made his entire body ache. “Not yet,” he sighed, closing his eyes against Aziraphale’s shoulder. He was so tired and so hungry that he didn’t want to leave the bed. “I like it here.”

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale smiled against his forehead. “Wherever you feel safe.” A blanket was miracled to wrap around his shoulders, and Crowley sighed deeply. “Sleep, my dear,” Aziraphale purred. “I’ll have more food when you wake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided I'd make it three chapters. Might end up being longer, we'll see. There's plenty of food porn I'd like to include... ;)
> 
> Crowley's self-sacrifice is inspired by my own viewpoints. I don't have the sort of ED that makes me want to starve myself, but the elements of deserving to eat, of refusing to eat for the comfort of others...that's definitely me.
> 
> Now I get to wonder if my dizziness is caused by hypoglycemia, ear pain from clenching my jaw, or if it's internal bleeding or high blood pressure :) I love being afraid of the doctor!!!! :) :)

**Author's Note:**

> I've been very sick and unable to eat much for three weeks, so naturally, I projected onto Crowley. H A R D.
> 
> I'm really sorry. But I promise there will be fluff! And poor Crowley's empty stomach will be filled up, and then some. ;)
> 
> (Sorry, I'm into feederism, so uhhhh...yeah. -_-')


End file.
